


Un dì, felice, eterea

by language_escapes



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (BBC Radio), The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (radio)
Genre: Gen, Operas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:10:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1896843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/pseuds/language_escapes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In opera, a duet can begin with each performer singing their line separately, and then coming together harmoniously in the end. With just some minor chromaticisms, this is true of them as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un dì, felice, eterea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/gifts).



> Written for Holmestice 2014. This is a tag to an episode from Bert Coules incomparable radio plays "The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes", which adapted some of Watson's mentioned but never chronicled cases. This is specifically a tag to "The Striking Success of Miss Franny Blossom".
> 
> Title comes from the duet of the same title from the opera "La Traviata". 
> 
> Beta'd by uberniftacular.

I did not notice the change at first. I am certain Holmes would fault me for my failure to observe, let alone my failure to follow my observations with deductions, but to be quite honest, the anomaly appeared so quietly and was so minor that it could hardly be considered an anomaly in the first place.

It began simply enough. Holmes began suggesting that I select our concert events alone, rather than each of us trading off selections. I accepted it as a graciousness of spirit- he did, after all, rather enjoy the Gilbert and Sullivan, and while I would not dare take Holmes to the music halls, I did like introducing him to composers who weren’t quite as overwrought as his precious Wagner.

Then he began to spend evenings away from 221B. This in itself was not unusual; while on a case, Holmes could be counted on to wander in at any hour, if he came home at all. The trouble was that we were not engaged on any cases when he would come strolling in at midnight, or later. I noted the habit, staying up to wait for him, but did not remark upon it.

The third, small, nearly inconsequential hint that there was something different was his propensity for humming tunes from operas when he returned home. It was a small detail, for Holmes invariably hums at the most infuriating of times, but that he was always humming arias and the sweeping instrumental lines from some of his favourite operas precisely when he returned home from his late evenings out, and rarely at other times, was another piece in a puzzle I did not realize I was gathering.

The puzzle all came together one Friday evening. It was a dismal, dreary day, and Holmes and I had spent all day camped by the fire, I reading yellow-back novels, Holmes carefully updating his scrapbooks. I had set my novel aside in favour of the newspaper when all came to a head.

“Holmes,” I said, looking over to where he was sprawled on the floor, “it looks like _La Traviata_ is playing at Covent Garden tonight. Would you care to attend?”

Holmes’ hands, busily snipping out newspaper articles, slowed to a stop. He looked up, his face a picture of deep consternation. “My apologies, dear fellow,” he said. “I’m afraid I have other plans for this evening.”

I raised both eyebrows, astonished. “Oh?”

He sat upright, setting aside his work. “Yes. Perhaps another time?”

It was deftly done, and normally I would have permitted the careful circumvention of my implied question. However, after months of minor details niggling at me, I could not quite ignore it anymore.

“Where will you be this evening, Holmes?” I asked, putting the newspaper down. “Have we been engaged on a case?”

“No,” he said, shifting. To my eye, trained in Holmes’ myriad of mannerisms, he looked distinctly uncomfortable. “You see, dear chap, I have already made arrangements to attend the opera this evening.”

This surprised me, for my friend’s social circle is small and select, and largely limited to myself. He has a variety of acquaintances, and many people with whom he is friendly, from all walks of life, but there was no one I could think of that he would attend the opera with.

“With whom?” I asked.

He studied me for a moment, his clear grey eyes nearly piercing in their scrutiny. Finally, he sighed, an aggrieved sound that never failed to signify forthcoming theatrics. “Do you remember the Upwood and Catterall murder case?”

“ _The Striking Success of Miss Franny Blossom_ ,” I said, smiling to myself. I had finished writing down the story a mere two months ago, though Holmes had requested that I not submit it for publication just yet. Holmes and I often worked together when deciding which cases to put forth for public consumption. Many cases concerned matters of government, and so were removed from my potential pool. Other cases were too scandalous to publish. Some, though, were merely too personal. I wrote up all of our cases, of course, as an exercise at the very least, and there were a few that I hoped to gather into a collection for later publication. _The Striking Success_ was one such case. 

Holmes rolled his eyes. “Yes, quite. I must say, Watson, I am forever astounded by your ability to come up with increasingly picturesque titles for even the most mundane of cases-”

“Holmes,” I groaned.

“Very well. Mrs. Ricoletti mentioned that she enjoyed attending the opera and did not have anyone to escort her. I… volunteered.”

“You volunteered?” I echoed incredulously.

Holmes let out a gusty sigh. “Yes, Watson, I volunteered. I find it hard to believe that your hearing is going so soon, especially as you’ve had no other difficulties hearing me today.”

I ignored his comments and the grating tone, instead focusing on the real topic at hand. “You attend the opera with Mrs. Ricoletti? I say, Holmes, isn’t she a bit, well…”

My friend, though mercurial and temperamental, rarely succumbed to true anger, and usually only on behalf of a client or myself. To my dismay, Holmes rose from the floor in a swift, controlled movement, his eyes glittering coldly and every inch of his body conveying restrained ire.

“Your remarks are beneath you, Watson,” Holmes said quietly, his voice forged steel. “Mrs. Ricoletti is an honest businesswoman with a passion for opera, and nothing more. Her past is exactly that- her past. That I choose to spend the occasional evening with her is no matter to you.” I opened my mouth to express my regrets for my poor wording, but Holmes raised a hand, cutting me off. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready.”

He left the room quickly, leaving me to stare after him in amazement.

It was not, of course, that I did not like Mrs. Ricoletti. My interactions with the woman were few, and she struck me as clever and capable in her own right. Despite her speckled past, she was indeed just as Holmes said- an honest businesswoman with, apparently, a passion for opera.

My objections to Mrs. Ricoletti, then, did not in fact have anything to do with the woman herself. My objections, I’m sorry to say, were purely selfish. The opera was an activity that belonged entirely to Holmes and myself. I had never attended the opera with another person, not even Mary, God rest her soul. Stamford had no patience for it, and none of my regiment had much interest either. Holmes and I, on the other hand, would attend the opera at least once a month, case or no case. It was something for which we both set aside time.

I was hurt to discover that Holmes had been attending the opera with Mrs. Ricoletti instead, while I sat at home and whiled away the hours. There had not been any change in our own attendance habits, and yet I still found myself upset and staring at the area Holmes had vacated mere moments earlier, his clippings scattered in such a way that would give Mrs. Hudson grief. Holmes had found another partner, even if it was a partner in something so unimportant as opera. I could not quite put a word to the sick, burning sensation that smoldered low in my chest.

I allowed the feeling to fester all evening long, nodding cordially at Holmes when he left. While he was out, I paced our sitting room, thinking about Mrs. Ricoletti and opera and Holmes’ anger with me. I turned the burning sensation over and over again in my mind, prodding at it and examining it as carefully as Holmes inspected evidence at a crime scene. Around midnight I realized, to my shame, that I was _jealous_. 

Rubbing a hand over my face, I knelt down to gather up the scraps Holmes had left behind in order to spare Mrs. Hudson (and myself) a headache the next day. When done, I sat down in my chair to wait for Holmes’ return, in order to apologize properly.

Instead of speaking to Holmes that night, however, I found myself waking well into the morning, still in my armchair. A blanket was draped over me, the only sign that Holmes had come in the previous night. Upon calling for my breakfast, I found that Holmes had also gone again while I was dozing in my chair.

“He didn’t say a word of where he was going to me, Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Hudson tsked, clearing away my beheaded egg with practiced ease.

“Did he mention when he would be back?” I asked, rising to open the door for her.

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. You know Mr. Holmes…”

“Indeed I do, Mrs. Hudson,” I said warmly, smiling at her. “Thank you.”

Once she had gone, I contemplated my next action. I wished to find Holmes immediately and apologize for my behaviour, but without having any indication of where he had gone, I could not predict when he would return home. I refused to wait idly at home, however, and instead dressed myself and hailed a cab to take me to the Nonpareil Club.

Upon reaching the club, I paid my driver and strolled up to the door, knocking on it sharply. The door swung open almost instantly, and Nicholson’s familiar face appeared in my view.

“Not open yet, sir, you’ll have to-” he paused, squinting at me suspiciously. “Hey, ain’t I seen you before? You’re… you’re Dr. Watson, the bloke that works with Mr. Holmes.”

I gave Nicholson a polite smile. “I am, sir. I was wondering if I might speak with Mrs. Ricoletti?”

“Why?” the fellow asked bluntly. He made an excellent guard for the Nonpareil Club, even if he was technically the assistant manager and not a doorman. 

“I merely wish a moment of her time.”

He eyed me distrustfully, but after a pause nodded sharply. “I’ll see if she can see you. Mrs. Ricoletti is a very busy woman.”

Thankfully, I did not have to wait long, lingering outside the club’s door. Perhaps two minutes passed before Nicholson reappeared, looking far friendlier than he had before.

“She’ll see you. If you’d like to come in,” he said, opening the door wider to permit me entrance. I nodded graciously, taking off my hat as I entered.

Holmes and I had not spent much time at the Nonpareil Club during the Upwood murder case, much to my regret. It was a lavish club with a superb reputation, the sort of club that men strove to belong to. I myself had no such ambitions, content with my own less elaborate clubs with their less prestigious clientele, but I could appreciate the surroundings, the brandy, and the excellent cigars nonetheless. Nicholson offered me one of those excellent cigars while I waited for Mrs. Ricoletti, and I accepted, tucking it inside my jacket pocket.

“Dr. Watson,” came Mrs. Ricoletti’s smooth, cultured voice from behind me. I turned just as she swept into the room, her dress a dark, rich red which complimented her olive skin tone and dark curls wonderfully. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“Mrs. Ricoletti,” I returned. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

She smiled, a curious half turn of the lips that reminded me of no one so much as Holmes. More a smirk than a smile, it suited her. “I am always happy to meet with a gentleman such as yourself, especially when I have been anticipating such a visit for a month now.”

I raised my eyebrows at that comment, but before I could ask her what she meant by it, she had turned away from me to look at Nicholson. “Tea, I think, Nicholson. Have the girl send it up. We’ll take it in my office.”

“Yes m’am,” Nicholson said courteously, and slipped out of the room even as Mrs. Ricoletti tucked her arm into mine, guiding me upstairs to her office.

It was a small, cozy room, much more humble than the extravagant rooms of the club itself. There was a desk with a high backed chair, and two chairs in front of it. In the corner there was a loveseat. Mrs. Ricoletti took a seat at her desk, a motion that seemed automatic for her. I sat in a chair across from her. We sat in silence, Mrs. Ricoletti watching me with dark eyes. I avoided her gaze, instead choosing to look around me at the decorations and photos. One photo in particular caught my eye.

“Is that yourself and Mr. Ricoletti?” I asked, gesturing to a photo placed prominently on the mantelpiece behind her.

Mrs. Ricoletti nodded, turning and plucking the photo from its place. She studied it for a second, and then brought it to me. “Our wedding portrait,” she explained.

“You were a beautiful bride,” I remarked, telling her the truth. The woman standing next to me was stately and proud. The girl in the photo, while possessing both of those qualities, also held just a suggestion of uncertainty and shyness in her posture and behind her eyes.

“Aren’t all prides beautiful, Dr. Watson?” she asked with a sigh, taking the picture back. She fixed her sharp eyes on me and added, quite pointedly, “Those days are long behind me, I’m afraid.”

A maid entered the room, hesitating when she saw Mrs. Ricoletti standing by her desk. Mrs. Ricoletti waved her hand at the small table by the loveseat. “On the table, Angelica. Dr. Watson and I shall take our tea over there.” 

I joined Mrs. Ricoletti on the loveseat, and she poured us both tea quite gracefully, passing my cup and saucer to me. When the maid left, she nodded once and said, “You are here about Mr. Holmes, then.”

“You cut straight to the point, Mrs. Ricoletti,” I replied, taking a sip of my tea.

She smiled. “You can’t run a successful club unless you’re willing to do so, Dr. Watson. So you _are_ here about Mr. Holmes. I rather expected this visit earlier, to be honest.”

“And why is that?” I asked, curious about this second reference to expecting me sooner.

“The great Sherlock Holmes attending the opera with the notorious Francesca Ricoletti? How could I not expect you? I suppose you wish for our visitations to end, then?” Her voice was even, but contained just the slightest amount of bitterness.

I shook my head vehemently, setting my tea down. “Of course not, Mrs. Ricoletti. I would not dream of asking that of you, nor of Holmes.”

She hesitated, and just for an instant I saw relief and gratification slide over her face. It was horrifying to me, that she thought I would try to end her association with Holmes. It was even more horrifying because mere hours ago I had contemplated just such a move, with many justifications that were nothing more than excuses to salve my conscience.

“Then if not for that, why are you here?” she asked with her now customary directness. It was an admirable quality, and one I suspected Holmes appreciated immensely. I could see why he liked her, in just those few minutes with her.

“I will confess, Mrs. Ricoletti, when I found out last night that Holmes has been attending the opera with you, I did wish for him to stop,” I began.

“Ah,” she interrupted, a brief, revelatory sound. I frowned, puzzled. Seeing my look, she continued. “Mr. Holmes was in a state last night. I don’t believe he enjoyed the opera at all, and he usually enjoys Verdi more than I. He would not tell me what had upset him, but if you… deduced… our association last night, that would explain his behaviour.”

“I did not deduce it, Mrs. Ricoletti. Holmes told me.”

Her eyes widened infinitesimally. “Did he? I did not think he would willingly volunteer that information.”

I smoothed down a wrinkle in my trousers, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. “I did force it out of him,” I admitted.

To my surprise, she tossed back her head and laughed, a dry sound that made me smile in return. “That does sound like the Mr. Holmes I know,” she said through chuckles, and then quieted. “Very well. You found out last night, and you wished for us to end our association immediately. And yet you insist you are not here for that reason. Why, then, are you here?”

I picked up my tea, back on solid ground. “I am here to negotiate,” I said, deciding to imitate her conversational style.

“Is that so?” she asked. She leaned back in the loveseat. “For what are we negotiating?”

“Operas,” I said. “You see, Holmes went with you to see _La Traviata_ last night, Mrs. Ricoletti, and that just won’t do. _La Traviata_ is one of my favourite operas, and I had to miss it rather than attend with my dearest friend.”

She smiled once more, the wry, curved twist of her lips. “You enjoy overwrought heroines dying dramatically for no reason in the last moments of the show? By all means, Dr. Watson, _La Traviata_ is yours in the future. In fact, I gift you all of Verdi and Puccini- except _La Boheme_. I have a certain fondness for that one.”

“By all means,” I agreed. “Do you enjoy Wagner?”

“I adore Wagner,” she replied.

“You can have Wagner,” I said emphatically. “I insist.”

She laughed again. “Not an appreciator, I take it?”

I affected a shudder, making her laugh again. Her laugh was a delight to hear, and I rather suspected she did not laugh enough in her personal life. “It is safe to say that I am happy to cede Wagner to you. Are there any other composers that you would keep in your realm alone?”

“Bizet,” she said immediately. “ _Carmen_ may end as badly as any Puccini or Verdi, but the music is beautiful. I would also reserve Saint-Saens, if you would permit it.”

“Saint-Saens?” I inquired, not familiar with an operas by Saint-Saens.

“ _Samson et Dalila_ ,” she replied. “It is banned now, of course, but should it return to London again, I wish to see it. Any opera in which the man dies while the woman lives is of interest to me.”

We spent a very pleasurable hour together, carefully dividing Mozart and Handel, Purcell and Gounod between us, discussing the merits of each opera and various performances we had seen. Mrs. Ricoletti was much more well-versed in opera than I, a fact that did not surprise me given her history as Franny Blossom. It was likely that her warm, lush voice was well suited for singing as well, though Holmes had never mentioned it to me nor did she offer the information during our conversation.

“He is quite fond of you,” I said impulsively as our conversation drew to a close. She set her tea cup in her lap and blinked at me, taken aback.

“The same could be said of you, Doctor. Our conversations are forever sprinkled with your name. I have considered myself lucky that he is willing to tear himself away from your side, given the way he speaks of you.”

I flushed at the thought. I knew well enough that Holmes held me in high regard, but the man had his own unique ways of expressing it, ways that more often than not included faking illness or engaging in deadly experiments with a confidence in eventual forgiveness. It was disconcerting to hear that he had expressed a form of fondness for me, even if it was while I was elsewhere.

“I hope you will forgive me, Mrs. Ricoletti, for my uncharitable thoughts in the past,” I said.

She let out a long sigh. “You are not the first to think them, Doctor, and I rather doubt you’ll be the last. One grows used to these things, you know.”

“It isn’t fair, though,” I blurted, and flushed once more.

She reached over and put her hand on my knee, an overly familiar gesture that did not bother me, surprisingly. “Dr. Watson, I was an actress and then a criminal. Neither occupation inspires the regard of gentlemen. I have risen above such scorn every time. I hope you will forgive _yourself_ for any uncharitable thoughts. They are in the past, and I would have us focus instead on the potential for friendship between us.”

I nodded, patting her hand. “Indeed, Mrs. Ricoletti. I think I would enjoy a friendship with you immensely.”

She smiled, a wider, warmer one than her usual smirk, and stood. “It’s settled, then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Dr. Watson, I’m afraid I must draw this interview to a close. I have much to prepare before the club opens this evening.”

I rose as well. “Of course, Mrs. Ricoletti. Thank you for seeing me.”

She escorted me back down the stairs, where Nicholson was waiting with an amused smirk. One look from Mrs. Ricoletti wiped the smirk off his face, however, and she sent him to fetch the maid to clear the tea away. I retrieved my coat and hat, walking toward the entrance of the Nonpareil Club.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Dr. Watson,” she said while I donned my hat and coat once more. “I am glad we were able to come to an accord.”

“It will certainly make our future opera evenings more enjoyable for both of us,” I agreed.

“Of course,” Mrs. Ricoletti added, “there may be some operas we cannot come to a decision on.”

“I suppose that is likely,” I said. “We did not cover the entire history of opera, after all.”

She looked up at me, her eyes twinkling. “In that case, I think the fair thing to do would be for both of us to attend with Mr. Holmes.”

I thought of the look on Holmes’ face and chuckled. “I think that’s very fair indeed, Mrs. Ricoletti. In fact, I think there is a performance of _Lakme_ coming up in a month. I don’t believe either of us claimed that opera?”

“No, and I have been curious about it,” Mrs. Ricoletti mused. “I’ve heard there is a lovely duet between two women.”

“And it takes place in India, which of course interests me enormously.”

“It seems we have reached an impasse. We simply must both go,” she said with a long, dramatically tragic sigh.

“It would appear so,” I said, and could no longer maintain the façade of seriousness. I smiled broadly at her. “Until then, Mrs. Ricoletti?”

“Until then, Doctor,” she said, returning my smile. I tipped my hat to her, and walked out of the Nonpareil Club, raising a hand to hail a cab back to Baker Street.

I was greatly looking forward to Holmes’ reaction in a month’s time.


End file.
